I really don't feel like I need to add to the chorus surrounding how devastating this year has been on humanity, so I'm not going to write some politically charged tirade. Everyone with an idea of what's really happening in the world and who isn't totally blinded by political allegiances already knows that Iraq is truly a quagmire, the Middle East is as always volatile, and the wrath of a tsunami has a body count that rivals and exceeds many wars. The scope of the disasters seems to be beyond comprehension, yet we're still going to ring in the New Year tonight with fireworks and the whole deal. Many nations have already rung in the year with somber festivities, and I'd like to think that we could and should do the same, but that's highly unlikely. No, what will happen is that the revilers will have their cake and eat it too. But it's not all their fault.

News reports have documented the tremendous amount of money already collected by charities for the relief effort. People are giving, but that's really not enough. To justify cutting lose tonight by having donated to a relief agency seems rather tacky and without class, but that's exactly how our government is behaving. The miniscule sum of money offered by the Bush administration was quickly countered with another higher total amount. In what seems to be a competition between nations to see who can give the higher sum total in relief, the effort has taken on the appearance of a schoolyard shouting match with one student trying to one-up the other with boisterous claims. If I were a card carrying conservative, I might think that these other countries are insensitively trying to drain our country of money when they know full well we can't afford it because of our other ill-advised, although not in this conservative's mind, conquests. However, I'm not, and I'm glad we are spending the money on a worthy cause, but I'm sure some talk-radio has already pounced on this point.

What bothers me, though, is that the example set by our government is being adopted by the citizens themselves. I honestly believe that displays like this are some of the real causes for our other nations to view our country with such hostility. It goes beyond the idea of empire and market exploitation. Lifestyle without consequence has to have a profound impact on ideologies centered around prohibitive living. Or perhaps not. Maybe they could care less that many, many people will be oblivious to the rest of the world for a better portion of the evening. I'm not condemning them for having a good time, not completely, but the events of the past week have to be on the minds of many and rightfully so.

New Year Dawns
Christmas is over and New Year's Eve is upon us, which will, for all intents and purposes, draw the curtain on what has been, to say the least, a rather lackluster year. Minor achievements in the face of monumental disappointments have served to cast a cloud over 2004, and I for one am ready to greet 2005 as a chance to start off on a new foot.

Let it be said that 2004 wasn't a total wash. I have a lot to be thankful for going into the end of the year and into the next, but what seems to happen, and it's occurred to me that this is just a fact of life, are numerous peaks and valleys, and the valleys seem to always outnumber the peaks. Of course, this could also just be a natural human reaction to adversity. Tough times are just that, tough, and they are so for a reason. You wouldn't have anything to complain about if it was just smooth sailing from the get go. Seriously, the tough times are there for a reason, I suspect, and there's probably something to be said about how one confronts adversity. All that jazz about becoming a better person probably has some sort of truth to it, although it's never obvious when it occurs.

I've never been big on New Year's Resolutions, so, in an effort to set some sort of agenda for myself, here's a few things I'd like to accomplish in 2005.

1. Lose even more weight. It's a cliche, but losing weight has been one of the better things to happen to me in 2004, and I didn't do it by abiding by that Subway crap. A little will power, a changed diet, and a lot of exercise will do.
2. As for exercise, I want to increase my running to around 10 miles a day. Right now, I'm around 8.
3. Continuing what I thought was a phase, I'd like to continue to read nonfiction in an effort to learn about subjects I'm interested in.
4. Speaking of learning, I'd like to take some more classes towards a degree of my choosing. I'm not sure what that would be, but I'm interested in numerous fields.

I'm sure this will keep me busy and occupied in mind, body, and spirit for the better part of 2005.

Latte Liberal
John McIntire of the Pittsburgh City Paper recently wrote a piece about being labeled a "latte liberal" because of his recent discovery of the addictive powers of Starbucks coffee, particularly their lattes. I don't really care about the issue of being labeled a "latte liberal" because you might frequent a particular establishment that, in McIntire's words, is the coffee shop equivalent of Wal-Mart. If the coffee is good, then it's good, and there's really nothing to be ashamed about by frequenting this particular behemoth.
What I find interesting, and personally agreeable to is the fact that McIntire confesses to being driven to Starbucks for one of the reasons I've given up frequenting the coffee shop I favored, the lack of consistency, a trait that seems to plague many independent coffee shops.

I've had some of the worst coffee I've ever ingested in coffee shops that seem to put more effort into creating an atmosphere in exclusiveness instead of making a decent pot of coffee. These shops are everywhere, and it's of little surprise that they frequently go out of business, such as the shop on the North Side that McIntire refers to in his article. In fact, McIntire confesses to finding this trait amongst the coffee shops that are located in the very neighborhood I live in, the South Side, so he could perhaps be referring to the shop I don't support any longer.

To clarify, along with the consistency issue, I find that another trait can be found among coffee shops that lose their appeal easily, and that's a commitment to remaining independent to some extent, or, at the very least, remaining dedicated to what makes the coffee shop just that, the coffee. When coffee shops expand to areas that seem more suited to restaurants, diners, and even libraries, then you're really not a coffee shop per say any longer. I realize that the nature of business is expansion, but there's something not quite kosher about a shop expanding into areas that aren't, in any conceivable way, designed to generate more money to save a dying establishment. In other words, if the changes are done out of nothing more than simple greed, then the shop loses its focus not only for its main attraction, the coffee, but it also loses that which independent coffee shops strive to acquire more than anything else, street cred. Excluding the minimalist interiors and antiseptic atmosphere, in my mind coffee shops should look like a Starbucks with coffee, some desserts, and nothing else to clutter up the area. Tables to sit at and music playing in the background are also required, but not that inane elevator nonsense that Starbucks cranks in. Again, in other words, Starbucks is the perfect coffee shop design, but it's something only a corporation could come up with and produce on a massive scale. All the sterility of a Kubrick movie adds up to a factory that brews the best coffee that I know of, but I wouldn't sit in one for more than half an hour.

No Respect
I realize that this isn't the time of year to be spreading invectives aimed at the inadequacies of others, but I can't help myself. Over the last few weeks, I've discovered one thing about myself that seems, on the outset, to be nothing more than a characteristic of a narcissistic ego run amuck. Not to mince words, but I have no respect for others, especially those with, what I view to be, tremendous egos and inflated self-images. I have no respect for these people because, not that I think they are dumb per say, they show little or no abilities to understand, appreciate, or discuss any subject matter that seems, to me at least, to be relevant to living in today's world. They have no desire to learn, speak, write, or in any manner pursue anything that even remotely resembles something that requires thought, creativity, or simply improving yourself as a person. I don't understand this disconnect, or even pretend to fathom why you would want to be like that. Is there a reason?

Real vs. Fake
Over the Thanksgiving holiday, I watched the movie High Fidelity with a friend of mine. Having seen the movie previously along with reading the novel, I was familiar with the content of the story and the characteristics of its main characters, but hadn't dealt with or thought about either in quite some time. Anyone familiar with either the novel or the film knows that it concerns characters in a record store that are more than condescending towards customers who don't appear to be in the know. This very aspect led to a discussion about the treatment patrons receive in two different kinds of settings, the highly specialized, non-chain affiliated establishment versus those belonging to a gigantic conglomerate of retail outlets.

In the former, you run the risk of being labeled and treated as an outsider, someone who isn't in the know and doesn't really appreciate the most important aspects of whatever particular subject area is in discussion, mostly music, books, films, or comic books. But at the same time, you will most likely get an honest response to your inquiries. There's really no chance that you'll get a false opinion on the subject at hand. In the latter establishment, you run the risk of being pandered to for nothing more than a sale's commission. You really don't know whether the salesperson's opinion of the material is genuine or not. Have you ever noticed that in these chainstores, nothing is really bad? All books are pretty entertaining, most music is pretty good, and many, many films are tremendous. Where does the salespitch end and the real personality of the worker start? I'd say it's almost impossible to know.

So what's worse, being lied to or being treated with condescension?

Cliched Writing
In what may sound insensitive and without any real basis for speculation, I'm forced to admit that, along with many other literary devices and narrative subjects, the story of child abuse and neglect has entered the realm of the cliche, or at least for me it has. Stereotyping abuse is harsh and an obvious problem when it comes to gauging one's own sense of priorities and the amount of sympathy any given story may breed within one's self. However, I feel that the story of abused children has become a rote process that can be, and perhaps is, recreated by writers and others who have never experienced the phenomenon firsthand in any way, shape or form. I feel that I could, if given the chance, create a plausible character or scenario in which abuse occurs, and have all the trademark occurrences in place to make that sound, at least somewhat, credible in nature, if not wholly believable from start to finish.

The only reason that I felt the need to remark this way is due to my initial experience to a certain writer's work who has become somewhat of a cult figure due to his writings on the subject of abuse, which he has been a victim of. J.T. Leroy has become somewhat of a celebrity author in a day and age where authors who are celebrities seem few and far between. Many artists have become enamored by Leroy's prose that centers primarily around the abuse inflicted upon him by his mother and his desperate fall into the life of a male prostitute. I know, you can almost see the cliches coming before you even start.

After reading a profile on Leroy in The New York Times, I felt that I should give his works a try. In what has to be a record even for me, I couldn't get through the first two pages. The book in question is actually a set of loosely connected short stories entitled The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things. The prose is good, no question, but the story itself is terrible. Reading about neglected children, while never entertaining, should at least try to move beyond the shocking recollections of abuse itself, and Leroy's writing doesn't do that. I read the first few pages with skepticism and finally disgust, not at the actions of the characters but by the predictability of what was happening and what would probably happen next, which wasn't at all something I cared to continue reading to find out.

In treating any type of harsh subject, authors need to move beyond simply recounting the harsh descriptions of unimaginable horror and atrocities beyond comprehension. Any book on the Holocaust, for example, that strives to do more than just recount the horrors of the Nazi regime's actions does so by digging deeper into the psyches of the actors involved. What these works don't do is simply catalog the atrocities themselves. Simply do so would be at the risk of rendering something that's beyond cliche into a cliche. Unfortunately, writers like Leroy don't know that this is a risk, and they continue to write in a way that renders their histories into stereotypes that seem stamped out with the same cookie-cutter approach. Emotionally provocative writing is probably the hardest effect to achieve, but it takes a special writer to do that and avoid rendering their experiences into simply unemotional recollections.

Lull
It's not that I don't have anything to write about anymore. No, in fact, I'm sure there's just tons of subjects that I could write about, but I'm just not into it right now. Right now, I'm more interested in reading and using the internet for the educational purposes that it's purportedly supposed to be for. Seriously. Tonight, for instance, I researched coffee, specifically coffee grinders. My passion for coffee is evolving, and I feel that it's high time to find out the intricacies involved in brewing a "perfect" cup.

One thing that has bothered me in recent days is the media's newfound attention to blogs and blog writers. It's almost embarrassing how much you can sense the disdain the "true" media holds for blogs, and, funny enough, I can see their point. Just to name one example, the recent election seems to have been accepted by one and all except for a few rabblerousers on the internet. Demanding recounts in Ohio and manufacturing reasons for the possibility of another "stolen" election victory by Bush have replaced the intensity which led up to the election itself. Flogging a dead issue is now easier than ever, and these amateur pundits are doing more harm than good. I'd rather not be a part of it myself, and that's why I've refrained from discussing it in general. But the possibility remains that I'm also just somewhat ashamed to blathering on myself about the miasma of events here. Or maybe I just think it's lost its cache. Who knows. I'll continue to rest for a time and see which way the smoke blows in the future.

Disturbing
It's arguable what the greatest invention might be, but the internet itself, wherever it ranks, has to be considered one of the most important. Variations on the phrase, "It has to be on the internet because it has everything," can be heard in many areas of life, and, while it's not technically true, there is some grain of truth, however small, to that notion. Included, obviously, amongst the "everything" is the seamier, more disturbing side of the net. Here I'm not referring to just pornography, which, depending on who you ask can be viewed as a blessing or a curse. No, what I'm referencing here are sites devoted solely to the aspect of death in all its graphic and brutal reality.

Whether one is a casual observer of the current situation in Iraq or a enthusiastic follower, one of the more disturbing trends to emerge, besides the fact that the entire enterprise is one built on lies and distortions, is the wave of kidnappings and beheadings that have plagued the region, our allies, and ourselves. For the most part, the kidnappings are a ploy for either ransom money from the victim's families or withdrawal of all troops from the abducted party's homeland from the region, and sometimes both. The kidnappers, usually, draw out the process by releasing propagandistic videos showing the captured parties pleading for their lives, making withdrawal requests, or even more outlandish demands such as securing the release of all female prisoners held in Abu Ghraib. After a period, the kidnappers release another video, and this one, almost always, depicts the savage beheading of the hostage. They preface the execution with some more religious gibberish, but the final moments almost always play out the same with blood and gore.

Since these groups rely heavily on the internet for communications through websites and various other forums, and, as we all know news travels fast on the web, the footage, inevitably, ends up on other sites as well. The first such tapes to cause wide commotion were Daniel Pearl's and Nick Berg's. Since then, there have been numerous videos released. Not all of the cases result in the beheading of the hostage. Most do, and those are the ones that make headlines.

As one would imagine, the sites that feature this type of content are very disturbing in general, and, when a trend like this isn't occurring, they usually traffic in death in general in the form of videos and pictures. Naturally, one can't resist the curiosity factor when one realizes that this type of content is available. So, I took a look, and, naturally, was repulsed by what I saw. Beyond the fact that the videos themselves are beyond belief in their bloody realism, being real I guess this is inevitable, is the notion that one might feel the need to comment on them, which they do on discussion boards that are featured on the site I stumbled upon and I assume others as well.

What's troubling about this, aside from its inherent ghoulishness, is the reality that people are out there whose sole purpose is to view gore and other outlandishly brutal content while surfing the internet, and nothing more than that. Perusing the board, I came across a comment that was just astonishing and very revealing in its observation. It's incredible when you think about finding such a poignant response in of all places a discussion board where the usual fare centers around commenting on a picture of a dead body. This particular person made the observation that, depending on how you interpret it, is either quite revealing or beyond repulsive. As I mentioned, there are many of these tapes out, and this site seems to have all of them. Also, as one could imagine that when one has watched all of these that you eventually become numb to their reality. The comment in question made just this type of accusation. The point the writer was making was that the videos had started to seem particularly repetitious and lacked, for lack of a better word, anything different. The sameness of the tapes was the real issue.

Not to turn this into some sort of stereotypical critique on the affects of violence, but there seems to be something truly disturbing and, at the same time, revealing about this comment. On the one hand, it appears as if the writer has become more or less totally desensitized to the realities that are being depicted in the videos that they are watching. I've watched several of the tapes, and each one is terribly disturbing and very difficult to come to terms with. I won't lie. I could say that I wanted to watch the tapes to better understand the realities of what's occurring on the ground in Iraq. That's a illegitimate excuse, and I find it highly unlikely that very many people actually feel that way. No, I watched because I was curious. Day after day it seemed as if another news story was appearing in the paper announcing another beheading. Curiosity got the best of me, and that's just how life operates. The reason the cliche about passer-by craning their necks to look at an accident has proliferated throughout life for so long is because it's true. True, seeing the gore itself is more than likely to repulse a normal person beyond belief, but the itching in the back of your mind that wants to, needs to look is hard to resist.

The other idea raised by this comment is that there appears to be a reason why the outrage surrounding these tapes seems to waver and currently has waned significantly. Are we becoming desensitized to this type of violence because it's happening too often? Can others, outside of the immediate families of the abducted, feel outrage, disgust, anger? I fear that, like violence that plagues other countries much more pervasively than our own, we will eventually hear about these types of executions and shrug with minimal pity in our hearts. The very fact that this occurs frequently enough to foster its own cottage industry should be enough to dissuade anyone from re-electing our president. Isn't this a sign of failure beyond a shadow?

"A screaming comes across the sky..."
Gravity's Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon is the greatest book ever...ever!!!

Awarding the Obscure
Everyone knows there's pretty much an award for everything these days. Part of this is due to the organization's effort to garner attention to not only itself but to also provide certain works with an additional advantage when it comes to the awarding of the bigger honors. Conversely, one can assume that this stems from the notion that if a major work doesn't get the big name award, then it at least can claim some of the lesser known ones as minor accomplishments. The fuss surrounding the National Book Award nominations stems not from either of these two scenarios, but from the fact that the nominees are less than household names. In fact, it appears their own publishers, sometimes, aren't aware of their existence.

The New Yorker and the New York Times both published articles concerning the fuss over the nominees, and, while it's clear that awarding the obscure has a certain refreshing quality, it also raises other issues about the process, the judges themselves, and the publishers' interest in the role literature and literary awards affect not only sales but the reading public at large.

Anyone even half attuned to the book world knows that the most celebrated fictional work to appear in the last few months is Philip Roth's The Plot Against America: A Novel. All personal bias aside (I think Roth is one of our greatest living writers), the omission of Roth, among other big names, raises the issue of what exactly the motivation is of the nominating committee. Led by Rick Moody, the panel is, to some extent, prevented by the National Book Foundation, the organization responsible for the award, from commenting. The Times, however, hints at but doesn't actually address one crucial aspect. None of the judges have had a book on the Times' bestseller list, and only two have been nominated for the award in the past. These two facts raise several questions. Are the judges using this position as a way to make a statement against big name publishers and their prized authors, such as Roth? The two judges who had been nominated previously are, likewise, obscure. Are they responsible for even more obscure works being nominated?

Personally, I can't decide where to fall on this issue. On the one hand, it seems rather unprofessional of the judges to nominate books that are obscure for obscurity's sake. However, if there is a heartfelt appreciation that these books represent, truly, the best the publishing world has to offer this year, then it's commendable that they would choose these over books that are, from all indications, not the best from highly regarded writers. In the end, it doesn't really matter all that much because, as highlighted in the Times piece, the National Book Award really isn't all that prized anymore, especially when compared with the anticipation of the Booker Prize in Britain. Now, that's a culture that I wish we could embrace.

Eh?
Writing something truly original is a pretty hard task these days. When one takes into account all of the sources of information that bombard us on a daily basis, both willingly and unwillingly, there's bound to be some sort of seepage into one's own expressions that reflect that influence. However, it's a pretty odd coincidence to lurk through the world of other a blogs and feel that somehow, someway you're being copied, or subtly toyed with. Paranoia? In true Slothropian fashion, I'll trudge along and look for the patterns.

Critics
A wise man once wrote something about avoiding the practice of critiquing those who critique you. For, as this wise man surmised, the only function of such an action would be to provide further fodder for the fire. Anne Rice apparently missed that memo, and, from the results, seems to be doing nothing more than adding not only fuel but extra wood for the flames.

For those who haven't been following the story, Rice apparently felt that the now infamous reader reviews posted on Amazon.com for her book Blood Canticle were, to put it mildly, a tad harsh. In response, Rice composed a 1,200 word defense of her work that appeared right along with the other reviews. I say "appeared" because the review has either been removed by Amazon or Anne Rice herself requested its removal; it's nowhere to be found on the site. Luckily for us some other websites decided to save her words of wisdom for others to read before their removal.

An article about the controversy appeared in Monday's New York Times. This article, though, does little justice to Rice's entire tirade. Fraught with many contradictions in logic and written in a tone that strives mightily to mask rage with prose, Rice does little actual defending of her work, and, in my opinion, addresses few, if any, of the real issues of the critiques that plague writers of her same ilk. By "ilk" I mean to refer to writers such as Stephen King who publish massive amounts of text and traffic in books that, for all intents and purposes, are the same.

Rice, who strangely resembles our current president in her inability to accept criticism, starts off her response by stating that her career has thrived because of her ability to "ignore denigrating and trivializing criticism." This type of blanket assessment of criticism, which in her mind refers to a specific type, betrays a lack of acceptance for any type of criticism, regardless of intent. I'm skipping ahead, but, from the sounds of it, Rice doesn't feel that there's much if any room for criticism of her canon of works period. In what can only be described as a glowing self-assessment, Rice describes her work as being beyond the necessity of having input from, horror of horrors, an editor because, simply put, it's so great. As she puts it, "I have no intention of allowing any editor ever to distort, cut, or otherwise mutilate sentences that I have edited and re-edited, and organized and polished myself." Later, she states that "every word is in perfect place." Rice is one of the better writers in her genre. There's a little more depth to her writing, and her prose can, and often is, neatly flowing. However, Nabokov, she is not. Anyone who has ever read one of her books must realize the absurdity of the claim that Rice needs to work so hard to craft simple sentences. Her works aren't bad stories, but they're about as deep as a puddle.

As for Rice's contradictions, and perhaps contradictions isn't the correct term to use but rather her desire to have it both ways, they are numerous, and it's truly surprising that she was able to cram so many in such a short piece of writing. First, regarding Amazon, she states that "there is something compelling about Amazon's willingness to publish just about anything." Rice freely admits to reading the comments and, in fact, states that, "I believe in what happens here." Stating that, wouldn't one assume that you're capable of accepting criticism then? Surely all the reviews for all the works she has perused haven't been glowing. Rice, in an attempt to address specific writers, decries the "sheer outrageous stupidity of many things you've said here that actually touches my proletarian and Democratic soul." The whole gist of her letter is supposedly aimed at only those with the temerity to make, in Rice's opinion, "outrageously negative comments." It remains a mystery to me if Rice's version of Democracy allows for freedom of speech and a right to criticize, regardless of the tact taken by the critic even if it is loathsome and "denigrating."

Second, Rice seems to feel as if she's one amongst the people by stating that she is "justifiably proud of being read by intellectual giants and waitresses in trailer parks, in fact, I love it, but who in the world are you?" Again, it seems as if she can't quite grasp the basic tenants of democracy in action, or the realities of society at large. If in fact you enjoy being read by a wide spectrum of personality types and, obviously, educational ranges, for why else mention the intellectual giants juxtaposed with the undereducated "waitress," then how is it that you're incapable of understanding that along with the wide acceptance you're also going to be judged in a variety of ways. It goes without saying that an "intellectual giant" and a "waitress" might have different means of expressing their criticisms. In other words, anyone receiving criticism from such a wide spectrum can assume that the discourse will vary somewhat from group to group. Critics outside of academia might be a lot harsher in their criticism and rudimentary in their word choice. You pretty much have to accept it all regardless. Having said that, it's important to at least mention that part of Rice's complaint stems from some criticism that was purported to be personal in nature. These comments supposedly referred to her mental state after the death of her husband in 2002. Again, I say "supposedly" for two reasons. One there are no quotes from specific posts in the vein. Two there are nearly three hundred comments related to this book on Amazon's page. If the posts making allusions to her husband's death were in poor taste, then there might be a real issue there worth addressing. However, if the theory was thrown out there just as that, a theory, then Rice's skin is a lot thinner than any public figure should have. In her most venomous paragraph, Rice states:

But your stupid, arrogant assumptions about me and what I am doing are slander. And you have used this site as if it were a public urinal to publish falsehood and lies. I'll never challenge your democratic freedom to do so, and yes, I'm answering you, but for what it's worth, be assured of the utter contempt I feel for you, especially those of you who post anonymously (and perhaps repeatedly?) and how glad I am that this book is the last one in a series that has invited your hateful and ugly responses.

Finally, as the last sentence indicates, this book is supposedly the last one in her long line of books. However, earlier she states that this is nowhere mentioned in the book or in any other way is there any indication that she's ending the Vampire Chronicles. So, which is it? Are you ending the series out of spite because a few reviewers on Amazon made you mad, or are you forging ahead and ignoring their comments?

Ultimately, the idea of ending the series is what, I think, critics are addressing. Rice has run out of ideas regarding these stories and, in particular, her main character, Lestat. Rice, in one of the creepier passages, describes Lestat as if he were real and a companion of hers, cementing her image in my mind as a writer without a clue as to how she's portraying herself in what can only be described as an vain artist with too much pride self-serving praise of her own creation. I've only read the first two books in the series, Interview with the Vampire and The Vampire Lestat, and it's abundantly clear to anyone with half a brain where this story is going. If the repetitive feel of the first two books is any indication, then the other eight are pretty much rehashes of the first, albeit best, book. When describing the current book, Rice talks about specific scenes and concludes that they "stand with any similar scenes in all of the chronicles." How true. I feel like screaming, "Anne, don't you see? The point is that they are similar, all of them. I haven't even read this book, and the scenes are familiar, almost like I've read them before."

One can sympathize with Rice if the comments addressed to her were truly personal and hurtful in nature, but it strains one's ability to offer sympathy to someone who seems to feel as if her entire body of work is beyond reproach. Rice has forged an interesting career with her books devoted primarily to one area of horror, vampires and witches as well, but they are as open to criticism as any other writer's work, be it those enjoyed solely by waitresses or solely by intellectuals. Nothing is out of bounds. And with Amazon's increasing popularity with their reader comments, it's going to be even harder to make sure that critics play by the rules.

Tone
My tone of voice is all wrong, or at least I've been told so much so by someone, namely a female, who I have an interest in on a level more than just social, this very night. Effectively, this exchange probably struck the death knell for any sort of future endeavors, but, as I usually do in these situations, I feel like I was misinterpreted. My tone was of annoyance, sure I can accept that, which might stem from a long build up of frustration after having my initial proposal accepted but subsequently delayed for weeks on end now. It also stems from being in a position where I'm not supposed to be completing the task of answering reference questions that I did in the past, but seem to always have to do when either of the two library school students referred to in the last post are working the desk.

Thus begins the age of uncertainty with regards to my role here at the library. It's hard enough to strike a balance that's in line with my job description and that doesn't infringe entirely upon the duties I once held. Add on top of that, the unending buzz of personality overdrive from this particular student, the one who I referred to as being in a near "orgasmic" state with regards to her enthusiasm. It's maddening to have to be around for long periods of time. Luckily, I do have an office and a desk to escape to when I'm not duty bound to man the ship out front, so I can get a break. However, the residue still clings to you long after you're out of sight and mind. My annoyance reaches a fever pitch quite often, and after this incident, I'm even more certain that I'll have to try extra hard to contain my frustration.

As for the incident itself, which isn't worth recounting here in its entirety, but amounted to nothing more than another in a long line of occurrences where I'm forced to admit that I don't know how I come off in certain situations. Do I sound annoyed all the time? Do I appear angry? Sure, I know I do at times, but that's natural for anyone, but this girl seems to think it's a perpetual state for me, when, in fact, it's little more than an infrequent result of enthusiasm overload. I can't handle it, and I think that the only cure for it is a good old dose of reality. Some get it and others don't. Those that don't can't remove their rose-tinted glasses and thrive in a incredulous state that refuses to grow up and tune in to the realities of life, especially life in an academic setting or just life as most people beyond the age of thirteen live it. Those that do, without question, seem to be much more genuine and grounded in reality, a phrase I've used before, and they can see the real world, and this profession, for what truly is, a sham.

Random Thoughts and Observations
Lost Words
Since my last post was gobbled up in a moment of technological breakdown, I felt that it was necessary to revisit that type of disaster. If for nothing else than stability and piece of mind, those of us who hearken back to the days of writing with an instrument of your choosing need no further evidence for this argument than the eventual and sometimes frequent failure of the computer. Having your words deleted by any number of freakish occurrences can be so disheartening that it begs one to wonder if we would have been better off without the word processor. Once it's gone, you're sunk. Unless you have a sharp memory that can reproduce your words again flawlessly, then you know it won't be the same.

The Optimistic and the Defeated
Encountering two current students in the library science program I completed in December, I arrived at the conclusion that there seem to be only two types of personalities emerging from this school: the defeated and the overly optimistic. These seem to be the two types of personalities that are churned out by library schools, at least here in Pittsburgh, but I suspect that it's common at most schools that offer this type of degree.

The optimistic seem to, for whatever reason, be confined mostly, to the females who enroll in the program. I don't know if they require females to have rose-colored glasses before being accepted or what, or maybe they're issued upon acceptance, but they seem to be in abundance both when they enter and upon exiting. If library school was a cult, then it'd be pretty efficient at brainwashing female members. These eternal optimists are, again for whatever reason, confined to the least mature and bear the resemblance, as someone who shall remain nameless likes to refer to them, of "kindergarten teachers." The sappiness seems to ooze from them like slime from a snail. It's hard enough to take seriously, but it also betrays a certain disconnect from reality. Living in a world that celebrates paper-plate masks in the shape of animals, these optimists seem to require little more from life than terribly written children's fiction, that allows them a license to live a neverending childhood, and an inability to think on a level beyond that of an elementary school teacher.

The other group, a much sadder lot, the defeated seems to emerge from library school without any shred of hope. After all the time and money spent on the schooling, the entire program seems little more than a joke designed to bilk people in the guise of helping them enter a field that brims with possibility. This possibility, as far as I can tell, is a fleeting mirage, the cheese dangled to lure the mice into the trap. Sure, the abundance of jobs was no lie, but getting past the initial application phase seems to be reserved for those with a willingness to degrade themselves in any way to get a foot in the door. Creating a phony persona seems to be the ticket in, otherwise why the need for "energetic," "creative," and "team oriented" (which basically means you're going to be stuck working with other phonies in some sort of psychological and intellectual deathtrap) individuals for most jobs? Most of these people are no different than graduates from other schools. Take any liberal arts student pursuing a graduate degree, and you'll see what I mean.

What's troublesome about this beyond the fact that it's a sad situation without much hope, is that it's a perpetual cycle. Misery begets misery, and the same can be said for the optimists. The delusional state is just as dangerous, if not moreso than the than the defeated because those in the latter group seem to have a little higher stake in reality and are much more genuine. Reality isn't a stranger to these people, and the thought of adopting a persona, no matter how appealing, is revolting on many grounds.

So, if the two I'm currently working with continue down their paths, one is obviously grooming to be an uber-librarian and can barely keep her enthusiasm from reaching orgasmic proportions, the other, who already has another degree and should have no trouble landing a quality job, could go either way, although right now she
might be on the verge of creating a new category, the academically bored, then the cycle will perpetuate itself. The one constant in library school is that there's no constant. You're either delusional beyond belief or hopeless beyond hope. Pick one.

Look into my Eyes
If the old maxim of eyes being windows into the soul holds any sway, then to extend it further would include the eyes and the face betraying one's contempt for others.

There's no real need to rehash my own dislike for bar culture which seemingly is the perpetual engine the fuels the side of town I live on. Without the endless number of bars and other establishments that serve alcohol, I'm sure the South Side would dry up and whither away like some windswept dustbowl circa the Great Depression. (If only John Ford were still around to direct the remake.) Regardless, I realize they fulfill a function and keeps the money flowing to a certain degree. However, for all the benefits, one also must suffer the ill effects of having a bar or two located on each and every block. With all the variety, one would assume that it's possible to locate a bar that measures up to snuff and allows one the freedom one, namely me, would expect. I'm still looking.

On a very, very infrequent night out, I was reminded why exactly I despise going to bars. I only went to two places, and they were fine, but it seems that there's one or more characteristic that rears its ugly head to do nothing but confirm my.....I had more to say, hell, I had it written, but for some reason Blogger chose to fail me here. I'm not even going to attempt to rewrite this post because I know I can't do it again word for word. So, just imagine what else I might have written.

Ugh...
Have you ever read an interview and wondered how on earth someone of such questionable intelligence and charisma could come across as such a fluid and flawless speaker of the English language? Obviously, writers need to edit conversations to what closely resembles a coherent progression of question to question and answer to answer. No one expects or wants to see all the numerous pauses, "you knows," "I means," "ughs," and all the other unsightly flourishes that litter everyone's speech, even the most articulate amongst us. Even President Bush's most ardent supporters have to concede that his speech is nowhere near as flawless as portrayed in newspaper and magazine interviews. It's impossible for someone with such a notorious track record of verbal gaffes to come across as a "great communicator."

Which leads me to the following. In what has to be one of the most heavily edited texts ever assembled, Terry Gross, NPR stalwart and nemesis to those with a need for something other than an overblown cerebral interviewing style, has a book coming out featuring interviews from her show,Fresh Air . All I Did Was Ask : Conversations with Writers, Actors, Musicians, and Artists is the unintentionally funny title of her collection. Anyone familiar with me and my ongoing hostility and bitter dislike for Terry Gross knows exactly why I find this collection to be so stunningly funny. The book is listed at 384 pages, but if the publisher hadn't heavily edited these interviews, the book would probably rival Bill Clinton's memoir in length and might even surpass that tome. Include all of Gross' painful pauses and idiotic meanderings in an effort to sound curious and interested, and we're looking at the War and Peace of interview collections.

Gross and her inability to sound as if she even prepares for her interviews, is the main reason that I can't stand NPR for long stretches of time. Why? It's too painful even when they interview supposedly educated people. To really illustrate this point, listen to the BBC. In one segment, an interview with a writer from the Los Angeles Times about her recent time in Iraq. Embarrasing is the only word I can think of that adequately describes the interview. Embarrassing for American newspapers and newsmakers in general. I've never heard such a mangled mess. Broken speech from someone who traffics in the English language is a painfully harsh reminder about how lackadaisical our society has become with regards to speech, grammar and adequate usage. The next segement, though, featured a British commenatator, and the language was, of course, flawless. What's that tell you?

Gross thinks she can conduct an thought provoking interview by mimicing the off-the-cuff style of Charlie Rose. She's mistaken. Rose, who obviously knows who he is going to interview beforehand and is familiar with their work, comes off as being genuinely interested in his subjects, even if, in reality, he might not be all that interested. Gross comes off as a student who forgot to study for an exam and is trying to wing it. Her interviews seem to originate from a whole different planet, one not familar with standards of practice for conducting a professional interview. The fact that a book could even be cobbled together from her meandering interviews is a testament to the abilities of a good editor. Otherwise, she'd come off as the the poorly prepared interviewer she really is and continues to be.

Hard or Soft?
Laura Miller's The Last Word column entitled Paperback Writer broaches the subject of why publishers feel the need to issue every book they publish in the more expensive hardcover format rather than in the much more affordable paperback or trade paperback format. One recent book, David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas, reverses the trend by having simultaneous hard and softcover versions issued.

Several aspects of the novel may have led the publisher to issue the two versions at the same time. One, the book is extremely popular in Europe, where it has already been nominated for the Booker Prize. The norm in Europe, though, which always seems much more sensible than the norm in the United States, is for publishers to issue what's termed a "paperback original" for many published works. I know this sounds like heresy and the machinations of "old Europe," but doesn't that make a little more sense? Miller mentions that writers dream of holding their book in hardcover format in their hands, not some crummy softcover. I guess there's some validity to that sentiment, but the fact is that the work itself is what matters, right? Who cares how it's packaged?

As an aside, I personally always liked the depiction of a writer in the Beatles song "Paperback Writer." There's just something really appealing about the idea of writing books for a living, and the song captures that perfectly. To me, it also sounds like the writer depicted isn't just some hack who churns out rubbish, as evidenced by his "thousand pages, give or take a few." He's much more literary, but with ideas to spare.

The second aspect of Mitchell's novel that may have been more appealing for paperback format is the format of the novel itself. It's not typical of a standard narrative, and that seems to be the trend for books to be published in simultaneous formats. Mark Danielewski's House of Leaves is another novel that was published in duel formats. Again, the novel wasn't typical with its changing fonts and other visual effects.

Ultimately, Miller advocates this type of nonstandard practice as a means to attract readers, especially younger ones who typically can't afford the prices for hardcover books. It also might encourage publishers to take a chance on writers who produce works that aren't typically formatted. However, writers shouldn't feel the need to abandon the narrative structure in favor of dazzling effects. If writers need to be reminded that the work itself is what matters regardless of format, publishers need to likewise be reminded that without readers who are willing and able to take a chance on reasonably priced books, then they're out of business as well.

Too Clever?
One of the most alarming trends in writing today is the emergence of a style of writing so overly filled with pop-culture references and soaked in its own overblown sense or irony and "pat myself on the back for being oh so clever smarminess" that the actual subjects of the text are lost in the mishmash. Two books, Sore Winners by John Powers, which focuses on life in the era of Bush, and Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs: A Low Culture Manifesto by Chuck Klosterman, a collection of previously published material that surveys the pop-culture landscape in a sort of scatter-gun approach, are two recent examples of this type of writing.

When writers produce works that are dense in language, absent of traditional narrative, and focusing primarily on larger ideas and concepts, critics often point out that the author does this intentionally in an effort to stymie the readers and make them fell lost, confused, and without any real clue as to what is taking place or what they're supposed to derive from these lanugos passages. In many ways both Powers and Klosterman operate in the same manner but with fluffier prose and inane references. The approach is different, but the intention is still the same: only people who are "with it" will "get" your work.

The problem with this type of writing is that there's never any room for breathing easier and dropping the pretense of trying to be "cool." Much like writing that struggles to chronicle the mundane aspects of narrative flow that just can't be avoided or spruced up significantly, these types of books are always "on." Every sentence is tinged with the above characteristics. Writers unfamiliar with the concept of overkill thrive in this fashion.

Klosterman is the worst of the two offenders, and I must confess that I couldn't stomach his work. A few sentences were enough to turn me off from consuming an entire book of his uncharismatic hodge-podge of forced Real World allusions, and his inability to just stick to the subject at hand without tangential excursions into media-soaked miasma. Klosterman is one of those writers, much in the same vein as Dave Eggers, who just happens to be everywhere right now. Where Eggers used a book as a springboard into journal and magazine writing, Klosterman apparently writes for every magazine that's willing to print his long-winded escapades into whatever pop moment that catches his fancy. Overkill is too kind a word for this type of over saturation of print. Klosterman seems like he's trying to ape the style of David Sedaris but he can't quite come up with the memorable, entertaining language that makes Sedaris such a better writer.

Powers, on the other hand, seems to know a little about maintaining his focus. Occasional references will be mentioned during passages about Bush, Cheney, or Ashcroft, but you still know what he's talking about. He seems to indulge more in references as adjectives and not just name dropping filler. Klosterman does the same, but he's nowhere near as skilled at keeping it to a minimum and splurges on the latter more than using the former with reservation.

The most troubling problem with this pop-culture reference as adjective writing is that it's destined to be dated. This leads me to wonder whether writers today are even concerned about the staying power of their work. However many years from now, mentioning Survivor or American Idol will most likely be greeted with a blank stare or bewilderment. Or, most likely, the books will languish on the shelves, unread, unnoticed, and totally without cache.

On Hiatus?
Frequently, I've written about my inability to think of a topic worthy of discussion on this site. Again, unfortunately, I'm consumed with this decided blank space where any ideas worth exploring and that legitimately hold my interest seem few and far between. What to right about is a mantra that I'm sure most writers experience, and that's one of my main criticisms of blog culture in general. People who can post on a daily basis and produce work that is even remotely within the confines grammatical sense and interest are amazing. Setting aside the issue of a writer's merit or skill and just focusing on the ability to grab ahold of a subject worth exploring can, and often does, drain the life out of a writer. This is why I think I'll be going on hiatus for awhile until I encounter something worth writing about, which I'm sure with all that occurs in this beaming metropolis won't be long.

Understanding Evil
I'll admit up front that my memory is terrible when it comes to remembering facts, dates, names, or any of the other trappings of historical events. I attribute a lot of this to the fact that I read books too fast with little effort made on my part to remember key aspects that might, in the long run, broaden my knowledge. What inevitably happens is that I'm incapable of accurately citing anything unless I've encountered it on numerous occasions, or enough of an impression has been made on me that I know I don't want to forget this information. So, what comes out of my mouth when trying to discuss anything about something I've read or seen recently is a jumbled recreation that I know is just flat out wrong or, at the very least, somewhat misguided. Unless I have the material in front of me enabling me to quote directly from it, then there's a good chance that I'll mangle the facts.

This brings me to the current topic of my reading, the origins of the Holocaust. I realized that I know next to nothing about the actual process involved in Hitler's decision to implement the Final Solution. I feel, and I'm sure most would agree, that this is simply too important to ignore. We all need to understand how this came to be in order to prevent it from ever happening again. Some might argue that it is happening in Sudan, and that the legal wrangling over the definition of genocide is little more than a bureaucratic nightmare, but that discussion should wait.

Two books, Christopher Browning's The Origins of the Final Solution: The Evolution of Nazi Jewish Policy, September 1939-March 1942 (Comprehensive History of the Holocaust Series) and Richard Rhodes' Masters of Death: The SS-Einsatzgruppen and the Invention of the Holocaust, the former which I've finished and the latter which I'm currently reading, paint a terrifying portrait of life in Europe during World War II. The unimaginable cruelty inflicted upon so many people, primarily Jews, is unfathomable on any scale, and the brutality in which the Final Solution was carried out is beyond comprehension in many ways. This leads me to my current dilemma regarding this type of reading.

Encountered in these books, especially Rhodes', are descriptions of mass executions that are gut-wrenching in their vividness and mind-numbing in their sheer brutality. The numbers are staggering, and the prime number, six million, is so far beyond anyone's ability to comprehend, let alone visualize, that it's nearly unbelievable. What I worry about is not so much about those who deny that the Holocaust actually occurred. Those types of people, while dangerous, are easily dismissed as conspiracy driven lunatics with a anti-Semitic belief system so deeply entrenched in their psyches that no amount of evidence no matter how convincing will sway their beliefs. No, what I worry about is that when one encounters numbers on a page detailing various massacres that occurred all over German occupied Europe and Russia that the numbers become just that, numbers and nothing more. Becoming desensitized to violence is a chilling aspect of modern culture, and I guess it should come as no surprise that those who are desensitized to actual depictions, real or otherwise, of violence then the mind's ability to comprehend implied violence would likewise deteriorate as well. It's sad and troubling, but this subject seems too important to allow that to happen.

Another troubling aspect of immersing one's self in literature devoted to atrocities, especially the Holocaust, is that one seems to encounter in every published account a description of the events committed that trumps that last in stomach-churning disgust. It appears to me that the Nazis committed just about every atrocity upon another human being that one could possibly imagine. This is troubling for many reasons the chief among them that I would hope that the need to keep this subject relevant for all isn't predicated on the necessity to describe actions that defy imagination. In other words, historians shouldn't have to rely on the public's willingness to be offended only if they are legitimately disgusted by descriptions. The numbers should be enough, but sometimes they aren't. A prime example how this type of mindset is subtly shifting is the outrage surrounding the Abu Ghraib scandal only really surfaced after the pictures were made available. The written words weren't enough to warrant outrage and immediate need for investigation.

This brings me back to my memory issue. I want to remember this material. I feel like I need to remember this material, but I'm afraid I can't. I know that what's being described in these books is something that we, as a society, need to understand. Hatred on this scale, and the accompanying evil associated with it, cannot occur again in our lifetimes. I know deep down that my outrage will always be present. I'll never forget that this occurred, but I worry about others who might forget for the very reasons discussed above. How do we remedy this?

B(u)y the Book (an addendum)

After addressing the issue of publishing in my last posting, I came upon the following passage in an article from the July 19, 2004 issue of Newsweek addressing the recent revelation that the number of readers has declined by 14% from 1992-2002. The seemingly blatant contradictions in operating procedure by the publishing industry are addressed as follows:

Oddly, publishers have responded to the decline in readers by publishing far more titles for people not to read. Two decades ago the number of new
books published annually hovered around 60,000, then climbed more than 100,000 in the early '90s. Last year saw a record 164,609 new titles. "Forty years ago, you used to worry that a good book would not be published," says Dan Frank, editor in chief of Pantheon Books. "Now everything is being published, and a lot of good books are being overlooked."

Frank also suggests that publishers need to be "more discriminating about what they print." As a business model, it seems rather ridiculous to feel that it's a wise move to generate more product if demand is at an all time low. Again, I don't know all the intricacies of the publishing industry, but something seems to be amiss when books are being produced at such an awesome clip that a good portion of them are relegated to remainder tables and massive clearance sales.

It's also likely that, even with the record number of titles being produced, some real gems are being overlooked in favor of total duds, but the figure above is astounding, incomprehensible. Print is anything but dead.

B(u)y the Book
Normally, anyone who likes books in general or likes buying books in particular would be overjoyed to see a sign proclaiming "Huge Book Sale." However, years of experience have taught me one thing when it comes to expectations regarding such beckoning heralds: be ready to be disappointed. I realize this isn't the way in which most people would approach such a beacon of commerce, but, like I said, I've grown accustomed to being let down in more ways than one.

The store, one of the many defunct Phar-Mor drugstore/grocerystore/entertainment complexes in the Erie region, now sports a yellow banner hanging over the partial lettering of another failed venture, which obscured by the sign remains a mystery, that practically shouts of a book sale beyond comprehension. As one approaches the entrance, other signs plastered on the windows promise savings upwards of 80%! So far, so good. Walk in to the store, and what you're greeted with are tables of books, thankfully arranged by subject, that stretches towards the back wall. In my experience, it seems that no matter how many books a seller might be trying to unload, they inevitably choose a space much too large for their wares, thus only really occupying a small fraction of the space available. This was no different. From the radio tuned to a terrible local station, to the unceasing wattage of the florescent lighting against the equally luminous white floors, the entire enterprise screams of desperation, or flea market. All of this hits you before you even get a chance to look at any of the books.

As one might expect, the books in any sale that promises such huge savings are nothing more than the smattering of recognizable titles littered amongst the enormous amount of books so unfamiliar that they might as well originate from a foreign country. There are tons of books of all kinds here. Fiction, history, children's, cookbooks, technology, etc. Any category imaginable is represented here, and, for the most part, by texts that have little or no name value. Sure, you see books by authors you know, Henry Kissenger seemed to occupy a nice section, and some titles you recognize, Pynchon‘s Mason & Dixon, but, all in all, it really amounts to little more than publisher's remains and bookstore remainders that couldn't be sold for anywhere near the cover price, and, thusly, they are relegated to a status that seems befitting for only those books that are downright awful and tremendous flops. Books that crazily demanded upwards of $30 in price are now yours for the taking at about $6. A sad comment to say the least. Another frustrating aspect of any type of mass liquidation sale that inevitably rears its ugly head, are those moments when you recognize a title that you do in fact own, but, in all likelihood paid full price for. This likely thought racing through your head, as it did with mine when I saw the above mentioned Pynchon book, “Why did I pay full price for that when it came out in, what was it 1997, when I could have waited seven years and bought it for $7?”

This leads me to question a lot of conceptions I have about the publishing industry. Where do all these books come from? Why were they printed in the first place? If all this dribble can be mass-marketed, then why is it so hard to be published? All of these can most likely be answered easily by publishing executives, and I'm sure there's more than meets the eye when it comes to costs, revenues, and profits for publishing. However, it's maddening to see tons of books, namely the fiction, by authors you've never heard of and titles you've never seen on any bestseller list selling for even the modest sum of $6 when so many other good books, i.e. books that you'd love to see for 80% off, are gathering dust on so many bookstore shelves.

So, what it comes down to is that it's not so much that these books are most likely shit, which I'm pretty confident in labeling them as, it's the idea that books that you want to buy are never for sale like this. Books that cost well over $10 and upwards of $30 languish on the shelves. Books I, and I assume many others, would gladly pay $6 a piece for. The same copy of a coveted book sits forever on the shelf of a local bookstore because no one in their right mind would pay the cover price for a tattered, used looking book. Why isn't this book sent to the limbo of the massive book sale? Is it any wonder that used book sales are soaring on sites like Amazon?

Publishers just don't seem to get it. Articles come out and proclaim that people aren’t reading as much as they were before, but what do you expect when so many factors come into play? Two reasons for the decline of reading that I think are important are as follows. First, you have the high prices that, even if discounted heavily, are still enormous that essentially preclude many people from building up personal libraries. Second, you have libraries that seem to be more concerned with encouraging patrons to use the library for every other purpose other than checking out books. The internet, movies, and cds have replaced the book as the main reason for people to frequent their libraries. I realize you can't force people to read books, but why not try to make them your focal point instead of internet access? Finally, for all the doom and gloom predicted by publishers, isn't it funny how they always seem to make out with the timely release of a book like Clinton's My Life or another installment in the unending Harry Potter franchise? My sympathy wanes and my cause for concern at the unnerving decline in readership subsumes.

The other issue is the simple reaffirmation of my previous claims of publishing, or, to echo Dale Peck's assessment of writing today, most, if not all if it is terrible. I will argue with Peck on the issue of the writers he chooses to skewer, but I do think writers today are producing works that, if not total failures, are at least so far beyond below par that they seem to be written by amateurish fans. Book sales like these serve notice to people that we, as publishers and likewise consumers, aren't able to distinguish between the good, the bad, and the horrific. I would think, if anything, the only good that can come out of sales like these would be that aspiring writers may feel a little more optimistic in their chances when they see the works that do make it through. I doubt, though, than anyone wishes to see their books sold for 80% off, but being published and sold at a discount and not published at all is really no choice at all.

I mentioned previously that I have been reading a book by Dale Peck entitled Hatchet Jobs: Cutting Through Contemporary Literature, which consists of previously published book reviews in which Peck give literature and its authors a thorough drubbing.  Peck, who is a novelist himself, is most famous for his scathing review of Rick Moody's pseudo-memoir The Black Veil: A Memoir with Digressions, in which he begins with the sentence, "Rick Moody is the worst writer of his generation."  Peck proceeds in this review to wander off the topic at hand, the book being reviewed, and launches into a tirade against literature in which the writers seem to be screaming, "Pay attention to me because I'm important," or as Peck refers to it as a "child needing attention."  Among the authors included in this dubious group a many that I consider great, Thomas Pynchon and Don DeLillo, and others I really enjoy and think are interesting, David Foster Wallace and Dave Eggers.  I usually enjoy these types of "one man's opinion" or "my state of the union" addresses towards literature refreshing, as in B.R. Myers' A Reader's Manifesto, but it's hard to read that the entire body of work by one of your favorite writers, in this case DeLillo, consists of nothing more than "stupid-just plain stupid-tomes" or, in Pynchon's case a "word-by-word wasting of a talent [so] formidable."  Of course, this can be chalked up as being one man's opinion and nothing more than that. 

However, Peck ends the book with an afterword that serves as a summation of the book's main themes and the reason the reviews seem so harsh.  This serves as little more than a cop-out on Peck's part because firstly he offers a lame defense for his severity and secondly offers little or no recommendations on how to improve the state of literature. 

Addressing the issue of why he's so harsh in his reviews, Peck offers the following:

It is true that as a critic I don't say much about the strengths of the writers whom I review. Most of those writers had thousands of words devoted to their individual strengths long before I got around to cataloguing their weaknesses: they don't need me to point them out again. And God knows I have never aspired to anything like impartiality. If anything, I have always considered my flagrant bias to be one of the saving graces of my efforts. If I am extreme in my opinions, this stridency can always be attributed to its author rather than to some kind of universal authority. The very extremity of my views does as much to undermine my authority as to enforce it, or at least I hope it does, because I am by no means convinced of the hallowedness of my own ideas. And talent, again, is not the issue here: content is, and context. It seems to me that there are two strains of literature currently in vogue, recherche postmodernism and recidivist realism, and both of them, in my opinion, stink. I'm not interested in pointing out how a writer works well in one mode or another, or executes an aspect of one or another mode with a greater or lesser degree of success, because I think the modes themselves need to be thrown out entirely. Not as tools for writers sitting down to a blank page, but rather as the two poles they must choose between, and against which they are judged.

 

To me, this is nothing more than a contradiction in terms.  Peck seems to feel that, on the one hand, he's not important enough to be taken seriously, but, on the other hand, he's still making legitimate arguments for the improvement of literature, however vague they may be.  It's the very type of writing he criticizes that he employs here to defend his actions.  Trying to have it both ways is impossible, but Peck tries to explain how he can do so. 

 

On the issue of the future writing, Peck offers this:

If I don't say much about the strengths of the writers whom I review, nor do I offer an alternative to the writing I spend so much time dissing. Sympathetic readers have often asked, if this is what writers shouldn't be doing, then what should they do? My feeling is that the last thing readers need is a writer telling them what to read (besides his or her own books, of course). And as for writers: well, if you need me to tell you how to write a novel, then you probably shouldn't be writing one in the first place. Still, there are some things I would like to say to my peers. But it's hard to tell someone whom you admire (or respect, or want to help, or in some way engage with) that you think there are problems with his or her work, let alone that it is, well, worthless. These reviews, if not as direct as a coffee klatch (or barroom brawl), are, I hope, some kind of dialogue with my generation. If, in the end, I offer nothing more than a series of prohibitions, it is because I think that it is precisely the need to sign on to a program that kills literature. As soon as a writer starts writing to belong to a tradition or a program or a school rather than to describe what's going on in the world, he or she has gone from being part of the solution to being part of the problem. Something that can be held up to a pre-determined list of attributes to be checked off one by one, so that a score of 80 percent makes it good, 90 percent makes it great, and 100 percent gets it a gold star, isn't art, it's high school. The year I graduated, the valedictorian was well known to be the best cheater in school: I helped him in English, my best friend let him look over his shoulder in math, and the science whiz (daughter of the science teacher, no less) helped him with biology and chemistry. As it happens, he was not a particularly stupid guy, and he was also reasonably nice, which was probably why we all helped him. But we were all shocked--not to mention a little angry--when he got to give the commencement speech instead of one of us. I have no interest in contributing to the making of another Cy Diller.

 

In other words, Peck sees himself as trying to avoid the position of being the one to tell writers how to write, but he sees no problem with pointing out their flaws in the execution of their projects.  In one of his few conceits, it's interesting to note that Peck doesn't argue that all the writers he criticizes are talentless.  Instead, they are just not using their talent in the right way.  What he would rather see them writing he never specifies, but I can't help but think it probably looks a lot like his own novels. 

 

What bothers me the most about Peck's assertions on the state of literature is that his vagueness and genuine inability to provide concrete suggestions on how to repair it leaves the impression that he's nothing more than a jealous novelist that can't stand to see those that he despises so much reap the rewards of success that he so desperately wants for himself.  For all the harshness of his critiques, it's almost requisite that you would expect a set of suggestions, but they aren't there.  Calling an entire industry on the carpet for its failures is a worthy cause, but to fail to provide a blueprint for the future serves little or no purpose than to provide the hallow critiques of a bitter man.   

Concentration Failure
Things bother me, even what most would term petty, inconsequential things.  There, I've admitted that I'm a human being who lets little things get under my skin, grate my nerves, or just outright piss me off.  Anyone who has read this site knows that's true, and, in effect, this is nothing more than a post that allows me to choose a new target to vent on.  If nothing else, I'd like to think that I'm at least restrained enough when I'm feeling perturbed so as to not betray my true feelings, especially in public, since it's not a confrontation I'm looking for but an alleviation from that which bothers me.  When the alleviation fails to materialize, I'm forced to vent here, in my forum.  So, what happened today that requires my immediate attention of all my wrath?  People talking.  That's it, plain and simple.

To explain, as I'm enjoying coffee and a bagel at my favorite coffeeshop, I can't help but notice the guy at the table next to me.  He's sitting there drinking something, and reading a copy of the City Paper, the previously mentioned weekly rag that documents all the numerous events that occur in a given week here in Pittsburgh.  Nothing wrong so far, right?  Well, then it happens, the cellphone comes out,  and right then and there I should have known enough that this was going to be trouble and that I should relocate to another spot.  I didn't, and I paid the price.  He proceeds to make a call to someone about a performance happening tonight and goes on to invite the person with whom he is speaking and then describes who the artist is, their style, and all that jazz.  What's wrong with that you ask?  Nothing, except that his voice is loud, loud enough for me, and, I assume everyone there to hear the entire exchange.  To stifle my rage, I just hoped and prayed that this call would end soon and that the person he was talking with would have to return to work.  Thankfully, this is what happened.  But it didn't end there.

In walks a girl who saunters over to his table.  They embrace, and then the real trouble begins.  I've never heard someone talk so fast for so long in such a loud voice and never allow the other person with whom they are speaking say a word of rebuttal.  It went on and on.  I was dying.  I'm trying to read, and all I can hear is this motormouth yammering on about this and that, and I swear I'm about ready to take a final swig of my coffee and bolt, but I can't.  No, I sit there and suffer and pray some more that they leave, but they don't.  No, it goes on. 

Then, suddenly, they are gone.  It's quiet, and I can concentrate.  I've always prided myself on my ability to concentrate while reading in noisy places like coffeeshops or cafeterias, but I couldn't do it this time.  I was so relieved when they left.  I'd hardly had a chance to bask in this glorious silence, and here they come right back in.  He must have had to put change in the meter.  Then it starts up again.  Needless to say, I hurried along to finish what I was reading and left as quickly as possible. 

Why do I let little things like this bother me so much?  Isn't it bad for your health to get annoyed at little things that people do?  I imagine that all this time that I've spent fuming in silence must somehow accumulate into some sort of massive ball of tissue that festers inside of me.  I don't honestly believe that a huge tumor of unspent rage is growing inside me, and I doubt it's how people get cancer, but I don't think it is healthy. 

Whatever the ramifications, I can still hear his voice going a mile a minute in my mind and I'm ready to plunge my plastic knife for my cream cheese into him if he doesn't shut up soon.   

The Speed of Reading
Everyone has a different way of reading a book. Some people read fast. Some people read slow. And there are those who read at a pace somewhere in between, a more leisurely pace I'd like to think. I count myself part of the latter group. I read books, which is what I'm referring to here, at a pace that, at times, seems to be rather quick, mostly when I'm close to the end of a book and just want to get it finished, or somewhat slowed down to such an extent that it seems like I only flip a page once every half an hour. For the most part, I breeze along at a steady clip, neither speeding or plodding along.

What throws the whole curve off, though, is when you put a book down for a day or two, mostly even one day is enough to notice an effect. Putting down a book, especially when you're in the middle of a chapter, is dangerous business. What occurs, at least to me, is that I'll pick it back up, start reading again where I left off, and, inevitably, let out a groan about how this particular passage seems to be overly long. Say, for instance, you're reading the Lord of the Rings trilogy for the first time, as I happen to be doing as I write this, although I'm not reading and writing at the same time. That'd be counterproductive, or maybe multi-tasking, or whathaveyou. Anyway, I'm almost finished with the last book of the trilogy, and I have to say that if someone, Benedict, hadn't lent a sympathetic ear to my plight about how the books seem to labor on forever, hashing on plot points that are neither important nor serve to advance the plot any quicker, I would have thought I was just suffering from another attack of having put the book down for a day, which I haven't done with this one but with the second. So, I wasn't crazy, or at least no crazier than Benedict, which is measured on a sliding scale. The book is long, really long. Which leads me to address the notion of editors.

One book I'm reading right now is Dale Peck's collection of reviews entitled Hatchet Jobs. In one of the reviews, for David Foster Wallace's book Infinite Jest, Peck opines about how the book, which is over 1,000 pages, has about 200 pages of good writing contained within. Obviously, this implies that some severe editing could/should be done. What about Tolkien, though? Isn't it also true that some of the more laborious passages center around the characters walking, eating, sleeping over and over ad nasuem? Don't most books condense time? Are you supposed to feel like you've been on the very same journey for the same length of time as the characters? I doubt it. Most books aren't that literal, and the narrative progresses ahead with leaps and bounds, or at least it should

Tolkien, who seems conflicted on many fronts, must have been in love with each and every passage he wrote. No part of the journey could be left out. Why? Well, I guess he felt that if he didn't write about the characters simply walking from place to place there wouldn't be any reason to write about all the places they journey to, which is another caveat of mine. Must every place have some name and history that is explained in depth rather than simply alluded to? Aren't there just parts of a forest that are just that, parts, with no lore behind them? Not in the Tolkien universe. Every tree, shrub, rock, crevice, moutain, dirt pile has some long, storied past that must, must I say, be explained. Or maybe it just seemed that way.

Laboring through this, I'm reminded that people I know have read these books multiple times. How, I'm not sure, but the joke by Seinfeld about rereading Moby Dick and having Ahab and the Whale becoming fast friends seems to apply in the case even more so. I know I'd rather take the chance on finding the Melville's masterpiece has changed than return to Middle-Earth for more travelogue-like narratives anytime soon.

Going Home
I've fled the city for the small town. These last three weeks, I've abandoned Pittsburgh and all the hustle and bustle for the laid back, mellow feel of my hometown. To put a myth to rest, let's just say all the cliches about a small town are true, and I'm speaking from experience. The wide-open spaces, the lack of congestion, traffic-wise and population-wise, the amount of trees (yeah, actual trees and even a forest or woods if you prefer), and, unfortunately, a total absence of what I've become accustomed to in the big city. For all its charm, the small town life always leaves me feeling as if I've been sent away to a gulag. No, not quite a gulag, but at least a Siberian outpost.

The change, which can only be described as dramatic, affects the psyche in many subtle and not so subtle ways. At home, I feel more at ease, a little less tense, and nowhere near on edge as much as I do in the City. These are all common characteristics, but another thing occurs when I come home. Once I'm here I begin to live a life as close to that of a recluse as I can imagine. I don't go anywhere. Mostly, I stay at home here and read, write, or watch television. Sure, I go jogging and go out to buy a paper or see a friend, but that's it. For the most part, I just linger here with the folks.

Why I choose to live this type of life is multi-layered and, to me, somewhat troubling. The fact is that when I'm home I'm not comfortable going back to my old haunts. I don't go to the coffeeshop I practically lived in during the months leading up to my relocation to the City. I avoid public places where I might be seen by people I know. I don't even go to the library. What would cause someone to so radically alter their life when they return home, a place where they are admittedly more at ease?

As much as there is any answer, the only one I can come up with is that I feel as if there's an impending sense of failure lingering about me. Now, I don't mean a sense of failure that would lead me to give up all hope for life and such, far from it. My biggest fear is that the old places I used to frequent, and by extension the people at these old haunts, have evolved, advanced beyond where they were when I was a much more frequent presence in their lives. On the other hand, I haven't evolved or advanced beyond my previous life here. Life now consists of a jobless limbo and a stasis so frightening and paralyzing that I'm not sure whether I'm supposed to just give up and move on to something else or to stick to my guns and proceed with utmost speed and confidence in a pleasant outcome. Life, as I thought it would be when I left, hasn't progressed as I would have liked. Thus, my greatest fear is that if I chose to return to these old, familiar places, I'd have to explain my presence, and I don't want to do that anymore. I'm sick of dwelling on my life and my future. I'm sick to death of discussing it with everyone around me, and the thought of having to walk into one of these places, be recognized and being asked to explain myself fills me with a nauseous feeling beyond reproach.

Most of this stems from the fact that, before the move, I wasn't concerned with anything other than life in the immediate here and now. The future wasn't a term I thought about frequently, at least not as a concept that had implications for my life. As long as I knew that there were months, weeks or days ahead of me, life seemed to progress without any sort of need to dwell on what might lie ahead. The future was, or so I thought, an abstract concept I need not worry about until it arrived. In this manner, I proceeded in what amounts to a rose-tinted haze. I'll refrain from referring to it as rose-tinted glasses because I don't feel that it was so much my unwavering, positive outlook on life so much as it was a delusional aspect of my psyche that refused to look beyond the perfect haze of life in the present. Anything beyond that would be something to deal with when I got there. This type of delusion was something, I thought, was reserved for those with certain bent personality. Someone not quite connected with the here and now. I don’t mean to imply mental illness, but those with an ability to sustain a certain sense of positive, uplifting optimism and a regard for life’s outcomes as a mere whim or a direction set by a higher power. The religious and the eternally optimistic.

One delusion that could likely be applied to what I’ve described above, though, is that of grandeur. The one problem with assuming that my returning would have any impact at all is one of egotistical and, I guess, self-esteem-related aspects of the psyche. On the one hand, to assume that your life matters so much to others that your leaving has such a noticeable affect is rather egotistical in nature. On the other hand, to assume that your presence or absence might have an impact on others is to belie some sort of psychological deficientcy that screams of a low self-concept. In other words, to think that you're missed is to assume popularity and impact. To assume you're not missed, seems to scream of low self-esteem and a wanton attempt at sympathy. Either way, someone can read more into the issue than necessary. This isn't meant to be a psychological examination. Rather, I'm attempting to reason out a problem I have with the notion of returning at this point in my life.

What it boils down to is an issue of embarrassment. I'm, to put it bluntly, embarrassed by my current station in life, and why shouldn't I be? I don't think it's wrong to think that you should be further along in life when it’s apparent that you're not progressing as quickly as others are or as far as you think you should be. No matter how much I’m assured that I’m not the only one, it’s hard to take much solace in the fact that I’m in the same boat as many others. Coming home is both a blessing and a curse, a blessing in that I love being here with my family, and I love my home, but it's also a curse because this walking limbo is suffocating my notion of how I should be able to feel when I'm back.

The eternal optimist in me screams that life will proceed in a manner that, albeit somewhat rocky and unpredictable in nature, ends in the just manner. Practical matters, however, have a tendency to rear their ugly heads upon reality, and the reality is setting in that I won't feel completely at ease with life in the town where I grew up until my life gets on track with a future that's upon the horizon, and not some far off concept that hasn't even reached the upper levels of the atmosphere.

Things are Falling Apart
I wish I had something poetic to say in this trying time. Perhaps something about a summer of discontent, but I'm at a loss for words right about now, at least words that are much more fluid and I'll settle for the harshest language I can muster. It seems that the old adage about it all coming down to "who you know" is quite fallible and, in my mind, false. Sure, who you know can amount to a lot these days, perhaps everything, but there's still instances where having someone in your corner doesn't guarantee anything, even the lowliest of positions.

To clue in those unfamiliar with the tale, I applied for a position, nothing stellar and certainly not something one builds a career on, at the very library that I was employed by these past two semesters. My confidence was high, to say the least, and the fact that someone so valiantly bowed out so as to not create an obvious conflict between candidates, although I know they don't see it quite in those terms, seemed to do nothing but bolster my chances.

Then it all came crashing down. A blow to my self-esteem, to be sure, and a definite signal to me that perhaps I haven't made the wisest decisions in the last year. Perhaps, and I'm just thinking out loud here in my forum, I made a mistake. Switching gears midstream, or not even setting off from the dock in the case of my former, previous degree, led me to believe this was a wise move on my part. The right move. Joining a profession that I thought would be a perfect fit, and all this because I was both encouraged and interested in pursuing it. I did so out of a genuine interest. Apparently, so did a lot of other people, people with a lot more to offer than I do.

In my honest, brutal assessment, and I realize I'm venting a lot of pent up frustration, this profession is a joke. Charlatans who profess a profound love for all things library related are coddled and rewarded for their phony, rose-tinted outlook. Others, not just myself, are forced to wallow in the muck fighting over the scraps, and these are the most meager of scraps to be sure. If this keeps up, though, those fighting for the scraps will have one less competitor to deal with. It's just not worth it.

Comedians for Hire
Anybody who is even remotely familiar with VH1, the seemingly more grown-up alternative to MTV, knows that as cool and hip as the channel once was due to the fact that they actually played music instead of airing endless shows that had some loose connection to music is also well aware of the fact that this trend has reversed itself, much like that of MTV itself. The viewers of this channel have witnessed a transformation that seems both familiar and alien at the same time. VH1's metamorphosis into a channel that clearly resembles its sibling is both a sad occasion and a joyously ecstatic moment to embrace. Why? Because the shows that VH1 bombards viewers with are, for the most part, actually interesting in one way or another. This is in sharp contrast to the mindnumbing dumbness of the typical day's worth of programs on MTV.

The shows on VH1 seem to fall into one of three categories: 1. the behind the scenes life story (represented by Behind the Music, Driven, and The Fabulous Life of...) 2. shows of lists, and there have been too many of these to list (heh heh) 3. nostalgia and current events (see any of the numerous I Love the [insert decade](the 80s apparently being such a large decade that they did two series on the decade with the chronicle of the 90s premiering this summer and Best Week Ever. For the most part, I'm concerned with the last category because it seems to get the most play, which, to me, serves as both a blessing and a curse.

As a rule, the shows from the third category devoted to nostalgia are not so much hosted by any one person but consist of nothing more than various people commenting on the topic in question. For the most part, the panelists consist of some big-name stars, but the definite majority of the panel comes from the outer fringes of the entertainment industry, must notably my favorite group of starving artists the comedians. Every other panelist is a comedian in some way, shape, or form. Just take a look at the listing of panelists from Best Week Ever. A lot of them are funny, but a lot of them aren't, and this is due to a lot of factors.

To be blunt, these comedians are creeps. They have to be the most bottom barrel detritus of the comedic community, and they are asked to comment on everything from the Rubik's Cube to Britney Spears. I'd like to think that I'm familiar enough with the definition of irony and can recognize it in practice, but seeing a white-trash goon cracking base one-liners about sexy actresses doesn't fit. If these are the best comedians available for the production of these shows, then comedy is in trouble. What's most troubling about these shows and their panelists is the fact that they smack of desperation on so many fronts. I mentioned earlier that the change in format for VH1 was something of a blessing and a curse, and I guess I should explain. The interesting aspect about these shows is that they're incredibly addictive, especially those devoted to chronicling the 70s and 80s. You can burn a whole day watching these shows when they rerun the entire series, which they do frequently, and they are perfectly suited for repeat viewings. Nostalgia is great, and I can't think of too many people who don't enjoy waltzing down memory lane from time to time. The troubling aspect of these shows is that they smack of desperation by the panelists to remain in the public eye. The same panelists seem to frequent all the shows, and the danger of over-exposure is incredibly high. Comedy dies on these shows. The obvious grasp at relevance and hipness is a sad spectacle to watch, and these panelists have perfected it to an art form. My advice is to stick to stand-up, because this type of work isn't suited for lame-brain one-liners.

Music to My Ears
What does it say about you as a person when you start to realize that the music you listen to might be incredibly annoying to others around you, namely your parents? I've counted on numerous occasions instances when I'm listening to music in the house or in the car with my parents around, and I'm forced to admit that this probably sounds terrible to them. Sure, sometimes they indulge my joy at hearing music in the car, but I can almost feel their disgust at this atonal nonsense. Thus, I feel that it's necessary to lower the volume or change the disc to something much more neutral in tone.

Two recent examples:
1. On the trip home, I had Wilco's Yankee Hotel Foxtrot playing in the car. I suddenly thought, "God, Jeff Tweedy's voice isn't very pleasing to the ear. There's no sense of melody at all." So I ejected the disc and replaced it with the always welcome strains of Elvis.

2. Sitting in the living room, on the computer, I had Pavement's Slanted and Enchanted playing. My mother came in, and I'm forced to admit to myself that no matter how many times I read about how this is a "classic" album and no matter how much I like it, it's not very pleasing to listen to. In fact, some of it's really harsh. Stephen Malkmus screeches, screams, and shrieks a lot through several tracks. I shut it off.

It's not that my taste in music has changed in recent years into what I envision occurs to older people who aren't hip to the scene and narrowed dramatically. In fact, I'd say that, if anything, my tastes have expanded to include bands, genres, and specific albums that I had no previous interest in, a passing familiarity with, or an outright hatred towards.

I'm left to ponder whether this means that either I am becoming more considerate of others or that I'm starting to realize that some of the stuff I listen to is really noisy and annoying. I'd like to think that the former is true, but I suspect that the latter has more validity than I'd like to admit. Maybe I just need some headphones.